The Daring Ladies of Lowell (19 page)

She didn’t consciously make a decision. She simply found herself standing and taking his outreached hand as he, with gentle pressure, drew her to his side. They walked together down the path, slowly.

“I was proud to take you to the oratorio,” he said. “You were the most dignified, beautiful woman there. And I would never hurt or alarm you—for anything.”

The timbre of his voice was both hesitant and tender, and the sound of it steadied her. To be standing close to him, alone under the shadowed trees of Lowell, was so different.

“Alice—” He stopped.

Wordless, she realized neither of them knew what to say.

His arm was encircling her, gently pulling her closer. She turned her face to his chest and felt the soft wool of his jacket brush her cheek.

“I admire you, that’s the true word for it,” he said.

“I find you warm and kind,” she said.

“We have a start, then?” His voice was husky.

“I need to go back,” she whispered. Yet she didn’t move away, and he held her tighter, one hand moving upward, gently cradling her head. She breathed in and somehow did not breathe out, but then her body relaxed, and there was nothing to think about other than being held in his arms. There was no war to fight, not now.

They had only reached the oak tree a few yards past Boott Hall.

He lifted his head, listening. “Do you hear the music?” he asked.

She listened. The notes of a waltz were floating out from the boardinghouse into the quiet night. Someone was playing, someone quite talented—was it Jane?

Samuel reached one arm behind her waist and took her hand with his. “I’m not very good at this,” he said diffidently. “But may I have this dance? If I’m not being too forward again.”

She smiled. “Yes,” she said.

There was no space between their bodies now; no pretending. For a few short moments, they danced amid the brambles and twigs, he, stumbling a few times. It was she who had the ease here, in her world. The music was rich and melodious, warming the cool air. She tipped her head back, feeling the brush of his lips against her cheeks, and wished not to think of anything but this.

He found her lips. His kiss was first tentative, then less so, then intense and full. No thought or worry or grief, for past or for future. She wrapped her arms around him, kissing him back, pulse beating fast. She would worry later, but right now, she wanted to be nowhere else but here.

The music faded away. Still they stood, entwined, unwilling either of them to let go.

Then a faint noise, a rustle. Alice looked toward the porch and saw Hattie Button standing there, staring at them with an oddly feral expression. Before Alice could do anything, Hattie retreated, disappearing into the house as quietly as she had stepped out onto the porch.

“W
here have you been? It’s late, and I’ve been waiting to talk to you. Sit down.”

Hiram Fiske looked up from the desk in his office at the hotel, peering at his elder son over the top of narrow spectacles that couldn’t hide the strain in his eyes.

Wary, Samuel sat down. If his father intended to wax indignant again about class propriety, he would have none of it. “I thought we were done for the day,” he said.

When Hiram spoke again, his words seemed carefully chosen. “Son, I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it.” He stared down at the ledger of figures lying before him on the desk. “I’ve got to cut wages for the mill workers, across the board.”

“What? When they’re making such poor wages now? You can’t do that.”

“Do you have any idea what’s happening in the mill business?” Hiram said, his voice tight. “Greed, that’s what happening. We brought in a new economic model, and now anybody with money is buying all the land facing streams or rivers and building their own mills. We already have four companies out to get us in Massachusetts alone. Profits are falling, and it’s going to get worse. I’m not the only one with everything at stake here—my partners agree this is the only solution.”

“Shortchanging the workers who make the cotton mill possible?” Even as he said the words, an incredulous Samuel knew his father wouldn’t listen. “They’ll turn on us. If they aren’t paid a living wage, they’ll walk off the job, don’t you see that?”

“We can quiet the troublemakers by getting that preacher convicted,” Hiram said. “Everybody in this town—including all the mill workers—want justice, and we’ll be the ones to make it happen. A lot of them don’t like those revivalist camp meetings any more than we do, and they’ll rally around us. And may I point out, you have twice now questioned my judgment. That’s intolerable.”

Samuel started to answer, then decided against it. His father looked drained, not ferocious. He bought himself a little time by slowly taking off his coat and folding it over the back of his chair. “I apologize,” he said finally. “But a wage cut at this time? Many of them don’t make decent money as it is. And with the accidents—”

Hiram cut him off. “You realize ordering the foremen to open the windows at the mill is going to dry out the cotton, don’t you? Did you think no one would report that to me?”

Samuel stiffened. “Right now there’s a sick girl from one of the boardinghouses at the surgery who inhaled so much cotton, she may not live. I see firsthand what we’re doing, and we can’t keep pretending it isn’t happening.”

“You’re too close to this, and it’s because of that mill girl you’ve taken a fancy to. I’m the one who gives orders around here. And don’t you forget it.”

“If you question my motives, there’s not much I can say. But this has nothing to do with Alice Barrow.”

This time the silence stretched long. Hiram finally broke it, swiveling his chair around, turning his back on his son. “You can leave,” he said. “I’m going to bed.”

S
amuel stood again on the balcony, gazing down at the town of Lowell, working to swallow his frustration. Over to the left, he could see the boardinghouses where the mill girls lived, and if he counted carefully, he could identify Boott Boardinghouse, number 52.

Count back, just two hours ago: he had held that proud, beautiful young mill girl in his arms. What he had fantasized sitting next to her at the oratorio had come true under the trees. She came from a farm, no Boston pedigree. He could hear his family, his friends, cautioning in his ear: Be sensible. But she was a woman of intelligence and grace, and he could not get her out of his mind.

He breathed deeply, as steadily as he could. He couldn’t bring himself to go back inside, not yet. He stared at the stars, but, almost as if pulled by a magnet, his gaze returned to the boardinghouse. He imagined smoothing his fingers across Alice’s brow, tracing the curve of her cheeks. If he concentrated—and not too hard—he could almost feel the softness of her skin. She was here, inside him. How had that happened? A moan escaped his lips.

This was idiotic. Samuel gave himself a shake, turned, and walked back into his room, firmly closing the balcony door.

He would talk to his father when he was in a calmer mood. There was a better solution to the deteriorating business climate than what he was proposing; there had to be. Otherwise the people who did the hard, dangerous work at the mill that allowed his family to live in luxury would surely rebel. It was already happening in England. There were these new worker cooperatives, maybe that was something—it was an idea that seemed to work for hatmakers and bakers.

He threw himself into a chair, head throbbing. The trial loomed over everything else right now. He and Father would find a better solution for the mill, but there would be no sensible talks until it was over.

After that, maybe, he could allow himself to think about Alice.

“I
saw you.”

Alice froze in the act of climbing into bed.

“I guess I see how you get special favors around here.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Alice said.

“Of course you think so. Am I surprised?” Hattie let out a loud yawn and turned to the wall. “Sweet dreams, Alice.”

Alice crawled into Lovey’s bed, lay on her back, and stared at the ceiling. Not even Hattie could mar the memory of those short, sweet moments with Samuel Fiske. They belonged to her, no matter the repercussions.

But there it was, just as she slipped into sleep: a tremor of fear.

SPRING 1833

T
ime drifted for Alice through the long weeks before the trial that followed, and her thoughts wandered along vague paths.

Then Mrs. Holloway would be there, leaning across the table, pressing a letter into her hand. By tacit consent, neither spoke of whom it was from.

Alice came to know his handwriting. The minute she saw it, she would fold the note tight, retreat to a corner of the parlor, and read. The letters were always proper. But she could read inside the loops and flourishes, imagine the heartbeat of the man writing innocuous words, asking after her health, giving her small details about the progress of the case, and, yes, there was the weather to discuss.…

Twice she had the courage to answer. Can you read me, she thought, can you hear beyond these words?

And through it all, the hammering, pulsating noise of the looms, the stifling humidity, the cotton fibers floating—the world she lived in, so different from his.

And always, she was aware of Hattie Button’s sharp eyes.

T
he trial was finally beginning. Alice walked slowly over the rough cobblestones of the main road from the dormitory to the county courthouse, dubiously eyeing her destination. It was a somber, forbidding place, even with the flowers planted in front of its grim façade. But they were blooming—purple azaleas, even grape hyacinths, struggling out of the soil, reaching up to the bright morning. So there was still grace and beauty in the world.

Alice climbed the steps, glancing around at the busy, officious-looking men hustling ahead of her, many of them carrying large, stuffed briefcases. Others, clutching notebooks, stood at the entrance, scanning those ascending with quick, darting eyes. These were the reporters, hungry-looking men. Everywhere, there was tension; a hum of lowered voices as the crowds streamed into the building.

Stepping inside, Alice was confronted with a dank smell of old wood and stale tobacco juice that filled her nostrils. A male place, acrid, harsh. All those spittoons shoved up against the heavy walls were infrequently emptied, she guessed.

At the far end of the courtroom was the towering desk where the chief justice and two assistant judges would sit. Her eye traveled to the witness chair—a heavy, ponderous hulk of carved wood surely designed to intimidate witnesses. Suddenly she spied Hiram and Samuel Fiske at the front of the room, and it was as if a fist squeezed her heart tight. There he was, the man with the handwriting she would now know anywhere. She hadn’t seen him in such a long time. He looked so strong and grave, shaking hands with important-looking men and listening intently to murmured conversation. As the news of the Fiske family presence rippled back through the crowd, people nodded their approval. She scanned the packed courtroom, wondering where she was supposed to sit. His presence was unnerving. Had she really kissed him?

“T
he mill will let one girl each day attend the trial,” Mrs. Holloway had announced last night with a satisfied smile. “They’ve learned their lesson, it seems. Alice, you are first. Each of you, pay good attention. You will be our source of information, other than rumors, which will abound. And you’ll still get your pay.”

“What do I do when they call me to testify?” Mary-o said anxiously. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be. If you testify, either Alice or I will be there to support you in the courtroom. Mr. Fiske insisted.”

“We know which Mr. Fiske, I’ll wager,” said Hattie with an arch glance at Alice.

Alice was saved from a too-hasty answer by Tilda, sitting wrapped in blankets in the parlor, looking dreadfully wan. “We certainly do, and we thank him for standing up for us,” Tilda said. Her voice was scratchy. She coughed, and they all fell silent. When Tilda coughed, her whole body shook, and no one could fail to see it.

A somber Stanhope had said she could come back to the boardinghouse, but not to the mill. “Not quite yet,” he had amended. “We’ll see how she does this week.”

“H
ello, Miss Barrow,” said a brusque voice, cutting through Alice’s thoughts. Startled, she looked up into the face of the unsmiling attorney general, Albert Greene. His black hair was slick with pomade today, his jowls more pronounced than she remembered. “I suspect you are looking for a seat?”

“Yes,” she said.

Greene turned to a large man wearing a buttoned jacket that strained to cover his midsection, his face red from a too-tight collar, who had draped himself across a bench in the middle of the courtroom. “Make room, please, for the lady,” he said. The man looked up, startled, then glanced at Alice. Surely, Alice thought, she didn’t meet his definition of a “lady.” Grudgingly, he moved over, and she slipped into the seat.

“Thank you,” she said.

Greene gave her a curt bow of the head and moved away.

A stir now as three policemen surrounding a fourth man marched from a side room and led their charge to a seat at a long table. It was Ephraim Avery. His eyes looked like flat black stones. And after weeks in prison the flesh of his face had drooped markedly, carving out dark hollows in his cheeks. No more hiding out for this coward. No white robes anymore, just a shabby frock coat, with an ill-fitting black vest and pantaloons. Alice willed him to be a pathetic, evil figure to all in the courtroom, willed as hard as she could.

Yet Avery appeared almost bored as his gaze wandered lazily around the courtroom. It was as if he were saying, I have to put up with this hysteria for a while longer, but none here can touch me.

Look at me, she thought, clenching her fists.

As if he had heard, his gaze shifted and fixed on her.

She felt abruptly swallowed by ice. Such strange eyes, peering out from behind those green-tinted spectacles, eerie in their calmness. The instinct to flinch and lower her gaze was almost too powerful to resist, but she would not give him that.

“The court will come to order,” bellowed a clerk.

Only then did Avery turn toward the bench. From the left side of the room, Chief Justice Samuel Eddy and the assistant judges strode in, their black robes curling and swishing around their feet, taking their places and facing the courtroom. Avery bowed to each of them in turn, an action on the edge of a mocking flourish, then took his seat. His lawyers clustered quickly around him, vigilant as crows. Three men dressed in the black garb of Methodist ministers leaned forward from the first row, jaws set, close enough to almost be part of the defense table. They were reputed to be honorable men and were certainly hard put to hide their distaste for the defendant. But they had opened the church coffers and dug deep to pay for his lawyers, convinced the only way to protect their church’s reputation was to fight for Avery’s exoneration.

Judge Eddy tapped his gavel on the desk, sending a sharp sound of authority through the room. The crowd went silent. “Stand, Mr. Avery,” ordered the chief justice. “The clerk will read your indictment.”

Avery stood, stiff as a soldier, betraying no emotion.

Until this moment, it had not felt quite real. But now the words that filled the courtroom made it all true.

“Upon being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil,” intoned the clerk, “you, Ephraim Kingsbury Avery, are charged with beating, strangling, and hanging one Sarah Cornell, a mill employee in Lowell, Massachusetts, causing her instant death.”

“How do you plead, Mr. Avery?” asked the chief justice in a strong baritone.

“Not guilty, Your Honor.” Avery’s voice rang defiantly through the courtroom.

Alice closed her eyes. She was hearing the arrogant voice of the preacher at the campground, the man who had clutched the lives of all those vulnerable people in his hands. And this was the last voice Lovey had heard before she died.

P
resenting much more of a bedraggled appearance than the judges, the jurors chosen over the past few days then filed in and took their seats. “Can you believe it? Over one hundred challenges,” a voice behind Alice whispered. “It was very hard to find any who don’t believe Avery is guilty.”

Alice studied the faces of those chosen, trying to remember what each juror looked like; how each one acted. Her friends at the boardinghouse would want to know. She wished she had brought paper and pencil; all she could do today was draw them in her mind. She had seen most of them around town. There was a moonfaced barber with kindly eyes and a legal clerk whose chin quivered each time he moved his head. The owner of a local grocery store sat in the back row, frequently clearing his throat. The foreman, Eleazer Trevett, had some deep scars on his cheeks, perhaps the result of a bout with the pox.

Finally all were seated. They looked expectantly at the judge.

He nodded and turned to the attorney general. “Mr. Greene, proceed.”

The murmur swirling through the crowd subsided. The trial had begun.

Albert C. Greene stood and thundered forth: “Gentlemen of the jury, we are here to avenge the cruel death of a young woman that has shocked us all. We will prove a murder took place. And we will prove who did it—and why.” He pointed a finger at Avery. “This man, under a hypocritical cloak of piety, violated and murdered Sarah Cornell, known to her friends as Lovey. Some have tried to protest that she took her own life. She did not. Others have protested that there is no evidence linking her to Ephraim Avery at all. Yes, my friends, there is.”

He paused to pick up a heavy stack of documents before him on the table and hold it aloft, then let his voice ring out through the room, leaving no observer needing to cup an ear to hear his words. “Tragically, the prisoner is a minister of the Gospel.” He nodded at the stiff black-clad Methodists behind the defense table, his voice softening. “So it is understandable that these fine men of God want to defend one of their own. But, gentlemen, I must inform you—evil has wormed its way into your midst, and we intend to convince you of its presence.”

It was an impressive performance, Alice thought. Surely it would influence the jury.

Greene wasn’t through. He pointed again to Avery, his voice soaked in contempt. “This man has brought shame to the thousands of Methodists who have listened to his words and tried to live upright lives. Our town, this state—we all want our citizens to be safe from the depravity of a cowardly hypocrite. The honorable young women who work in the mills are crying out for justice—and we will bring it to them.”